


but not with haste

by occamstireiron



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Equally Shameless Fluff, M/M, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Post-Trespasser Fic, Shameless Smut, Shibari, Size Kink, Spoiler: They Get A Happy Ending, They earned it, a lot of cuddling in general honestly, old boys in love, this is a holiday exchange it's a sads-free zone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 22:50:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13087071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occamstireiron/pseuds/occamstireiron
Summary: After long and illustrious careers, The Iron Bull and Dorian Pavus consider their well-deserved retirement.Or: Bull comes home, for the first time in a long time.





	but not with haste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Speckeh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speckeh/gifts).



"You sure about this, Chief?" Krem is stoic as always: soldier-straight posture, jaw set, but his eyes are dark with worry.

Never mind that there is nothing to be worried about. Never mind that Krem has been de facto leader of the Chargers in all but name for months now, Bull letting him call more and more of the shots until there's nothing left for Bull himself to do but stand around looking big and imposing. Krem is ready for this. But he's never going to _feel_ ready until Bull gives him that last push.

"You'll do fine," Bull assures him, with a confidence that he doesn't need to fake. "The boys know you, they trust you, and frankly by now they're all damned tired of dragons anyway."

Krem stifles a little huff of laughter. "You and those _dragons_ , Chief."

"Not anymore," he sighs, putting a little extra theatricality into it for Krem's sake. "My dragon-hunting days are over, Krem-brulee. You're the Chief now, you're gonna have to carry on in my name."

It's the knee, really. Bull's axe-arm is strong as ever, but dragons have this terrible habit of living on top of steep mountains, or down tricky desert dunes with bad footing, or in the middle of frozen wastelands that make his bones ache. He's lived a good life, but a hard one: the mercenary life takes its toll, and Bull had a choice to make. He could either keep pushing his luck until he went out in a blaze of glory - likely eaten by something scaly and majestic - or…

There's another possible end to this story. One he wouldn't have thought possible, before the Inquisition.

The rest of the Chargers have already said their farewells, last night in the tavern, over entirely too many boasts of past battles and toasts to his good health. (Bull can usually drink any or all of them under the table, but even his memories of the raucous party are a little blurry.) Just over the ridge, their campfires wink like fallen stars. There is only this last piece of business to attend to: it ends how it begins, just the two of them.

Krem hugs him tight. If anyone's eyes are wet, they mutually decline to bring it up. "I'll visit," Krem says gruffly, a bit muffled by Bull's chest. "Every year, on your birthday. I'll bring the boys with me."

"Bet Dorian will love that," Bull teases, but gently. Then he turns to face the ridge, taking a deep breath before roaring out, " _Chargers!_ "

" _Horns up!"_ they chorus back, not missing a beat.

Krem mounts his horse; Bull does the same. They ride in opposite directions.

 

\---

 

The Pavus villa is in a sleepy town on the Nevarran border, a scant half-day's ride from Trevis. Ironic, really, that this is likely the closest Krem has come to his birthplace in many a long year. But the Chargers still aren't terribly welcome in Tevinter - even less so, after the Incident with the Venatori - and so they turn south at the border, back towards Skyhold, while Bull rides on alone.

Honeysuckle, the enormous dapple-grey draft mare that Bull favors, sets an ambling pace down the dirt road. Part of him wants to spur her on, pick up the pace, _hurry, hurry_ \- especially knowing what waits for him at the end of the journey.

But he refrains. If the tamassrans taught him anything, it is this: there is value in patience. The anticipation, too, is an inseparable part of the experience. Koslun willing, he will only have this _particular_ reunion once, and then they will not be parted again. There's no need to rush it.

The sending-crystal hangs around his neck, occasionally clinking softly where it knocks into the dragon's tooth set in dawnstone. Bull plays with it between two fingers, briefly considers sending a message… but knowing Dorian, he'll be wrapped up in last-minute preparations, bustling around the villa in a tremendous hurry to make sure that everything is perfect. There's no need to disturb him, when they'll be seeing one another face-to-face soon.

Towards late afternoon, the open fields to either side of the road give way to tidy rows of trees: an orchard, well-tended. Squat, gnarled olive trees (most of which, Bull suspects, are older than Dorian himself) spread their silvery-green boughs wide, heavy-laden with fragrant blossoms that bode well for a splendid harvest at the turn of the season. An elf pauses in her work at the heavy clop-clop of Honeysuckle's approach; she turns and waves at Bull, and Bull waves back. These days, the villa is staffed exclusively by handsomely-compensated _liberati_ workers, all of whom Bull interviewed personally. There's no such thing as too much caution, and Bull can spot a _viddathari_ at fifty paces.

He has spent time in Minrathous before, the ancient city so loud and crowded and claustrophobic that it felt like it was going to close in around his ears. Out here in the countryside, however, with no sound but the wind in the trees and the distant piercing cries of peacocks, it is hard to believe that this is part of the same Tevinter.

Only when the low walls of the _villa rustica_ itself come into view does Bull give in to temptation, setting heels to Honeysuckle's flanks and urging her into a heavy, clattering canter. She snorts a protest, but obliges him, carrying him into the courtyard with a great noise of heavy hooves and indignant squawking peacocks fluttering out of his way, all of which summons what feels like half the house-staff all at once. Familiar hands take the mare's reins, his pack, his dawnstone axe, all of which will be whisked away to their proper places. It is a little overwhelming for Bull, who still has an intrinsic distaste for Tevinter opulence, but…

This place. This quiet country villa, with the white walls and the red-tiled roof and the open courtyard dappled with sunlight. This is _home_ , now.

The itinerant life of a mercenary - and prior to that, of a Ben-Hassrath spy - left little room for sentiment about _places_. Home was always embodied in people: wherever the Chargers bedded down for the night, that was home until the next morning. Even Skyhold, which had been their base of operations longer than anywhere else, Bull recalls more for the people in it - the familiar walls of the Herald's Rest conjure fond memories, but the thought of returning to it now holds none of Bull's interest.

Then again, he thinks, as Dorian rounds the corner in a flustered flash of silk, this place is home because of the people in it too.

"Amatus," Dorian breathes, and Bull sweeps him up into his arms like Dorian is weightless, wrapping his lover in a bear-hug that lifts him off his feet entirely.

"Kadan," rumbles Bull, two syllables bearing the weight of years. "My heart."

He sets Dorian down, holding him at arm's length to look him over: Tevinter has always been a viper's nest, but Dorian bears no new scars, no signs of recent close brushes with assassins or Venatori or whatever new threat Thedas has seen fit to throw at them lately.

Away from the vicious intrigue of Minrathous, Dorian wears neither the practical armor he dons in the field, nor the metaphorical armor of finery demanded by the Magisterium. He looks… _comfortable_ , more himself, dressed in a soft tunic and plain, unadorned leggings. His hair, grown out long in some artfully elaborate style that's probably all the rage in Minrathous right now, is as much silver as black these days. The moustache, on the other hand, hasn't changed in the slightest, to an extent that leads Bull to suspect that there might be surreptitious application of black dye involved. There are crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, and a pair of silver spectacles perched on the bridge of his aristocratic nose; the last time that Bull saw him, Dorian was still insisting they were only for reading, but he must have abandoned vanity for practicality since then.

He is still exactly as pretty as he was the first time Bull saw him, in the Chantry at Redcliffe.

Predictably, Dorian has little patience to spare on Bull's monocular scrutiny. As soon as Bull's hands leave Dorian's shoulders, Dorian is back in his arms, grasping him firmly by the base of one horn - and _wow_ , that is _weirdly hot_ \- pulling him down to Dorian's level. Bull obligingly leans down, bowing his head to better allow Dorian to pepper him with affectionate kisses.

" _Maker_ , I missed you," Dorian says, in the brief respite he takes to breathe between kisses.

"Missed you too, handsome." It's difficult to concentrate on anything else when Dorian is this close to him… anything, that is, except Dorian himself. The taste of his mouth. The shape of his body, inviting softness overlaying supple strength. The warmth of his skin, spicy-sweet as always with aromatic spell components and the distinctive sandalwood-and-embrium _attar_ that Dorian favors.

Part of him wants to tear open all that pretty silk and just take Dorian right here. But they're still standing in the middle of the rather _public_ courtyard, and there's at least one nosy gardener eyeballing them speculatively from around the corner.

"Inside," Bull growls, in the low commanding tone that brooks no argument. "I've waited long enough."

This close, he can see Dorian's pupils dilate in arousal, watching black subsume grey. He swallows hard before answering. "...Yes - yes, I think that would be best."

Bull is in control - Bull is _always_ in control, but Dorian knows the layout of the villa best, and Bull allows him to lead the way through familiar rooms: the atrium, the triclinium, the entranceway to the baths. The sound of water and the steam in the air remind Bull abruptly of the sweat and road-dust clinging to his skin, and he doesn't hesitate to strip down, body shyness long forgotten. Dorian, too, casts his clothes aside with greater abandon than he usually would, before kneeling to help Bull with the trickier latches on his leg-brace.

There is something about seeing Dorian kneel in front of him that always makes Bull's heart quicken its pace, even in the context of something so benign as helping him with the brace. It makes him want to curl his fingers in that long hair, watch Dorian's eyelashes flutter half-closed in pleasure as he submits.

He could do it. Dorian would let him - Dorian would _welcome_ it, even. The boundaries of their relationship have been long-established: Bull can take what he pleases, and Dorian has his watch-word. (It has been a long time since either of them felt a need to use the watch-word for anything more alarming than Dorian forgetting an appointment and needing to be let out of the rope in a hurry.)

But Bull allows Dorian to finish, then steps gingerly out of the brace, setting bare feet down on heated tile. Some clever combination of pipes and fire-runes contrives such that the mosaiced floor of this room is always pleasantly warm to the touch, the water always steaming at just the right temperature to soothe aching muscles. There are plenty of applications of magic that Bull finds frivolous or even a little creepy, but this? He could get used to this.

Dorian fusses about on the edge of the bath, arranging small pots of scrubs and scented oils to his liking before stepping into the water, and Bull makes no effort to hide his fond smile.

“This is for you,” Dorian says, passing Bull a palm-sized clay pot as he sinks into the water beside him. “Devil of a time getting it, but you deserve the best, amatus.”

Bull takes it, curious. "What's this?"

“Ah, horn balm,” Dorian answers, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I asked Varric to see if the Tethras folk had any contacts in Seheron. Turns out they do, slippery bastards. Who knew our acquaintance would _finally_ come in handy?”

"Speak for yourself, I have about sixty 'limited edition signed copies' of Hard in Hightown I still keep trying to offload onto friends every Wintersend." Bull opens the jar and breathes deep: it's the real deal, all right, cocoa butter and a very particular blend of essential oils - more medicinal-smelling than fragrant, but pleasant in a nostalgic sort of way.

“Everyone seems to already have a copy,” Dorian says absently, finger-combing some kind of sweet-smelling oil into his hair.

"Thank you, kadan." Bull leans in and kisses Dorian on the cheek, then carefully corks the jar and sets it alongside Dorian's collection of products.

“I’m glad you like it.” Dorian drifts closer to Bull, leaning in until he can rest his head on his shoulder. “ _Maker_ , I’ve missed this.”

“I’ve missed it too.” Bull wraps an arm loosely around Dorian’s waist, free hand tracing over his chest and back, seeking out new scars or anything he might have missed before. Dorian does the same, the pads of his fingers catching on a more-recently-healed scrape.

“I’d say I wish you’d stop doing this, but...I suppose you have,” he murmurs.

"Officially retired," Bull agrees. "I don't think it's quite sunk in for Krem yet, but he and the boys will be fine without me."

“Cremisius has always been more responsible than you, anyway.”

Bull presses a hand to his heart, mock-wounded. "I'm not _dead_ yet, despite the best efforts of several dragons, an ancient magister, the Viddasala, and the entire island of Seheron. I don't think I did that bad a job."

“Well, let’s not push it.” Dorian’s tone is playful, the way it gets when he’s not quite ready to concede the point but also not willing to die on his hill.

"I don't intend to." He sinks a little deeper into the water, rearranging the two of them so that Dorian is halfway into Bull's lap, and his fingertips trail along the soft skin of Dorian's thigh. "Got better things to do tonight, anyway."

Dorian swallows hard. “I should hope so,” he says quietly.

It's been a long ride, and longer still since Bull had access to accommodations more inviting than a frigid mountain stream; he isn't ashamed to admit that he's reluctant to leave the water, with Dorian in his arms and the heat sinking deep into his bones. Dorian's body is invitingly languid, and it's tempting to linger here until Dorian begins to complain about turning into a prune. But he has plans for tonight - and some of those plans require the contents of a discreet wooden chest that Dorian keeps at the foot of his bed.

He gets out of the bath slowly, favoring his bad leg, and wraps a towel around his waist to preserve some miminal modesty. Dorian makes a drawn-out noise of protest before following. He tugs on a robe, then applies some sort of waxy-looking product to his moustache to twist it into its familiar shape.

"You don't have any plans for tomorrow, do you?"

"No. I cleared my schedule - there's no pressing appointments."

" _Good_." Bull presses him up against the wall, one hand pinning Dorian's wrists over his head, the other reaching down to cup Dorian's hardening cock through the scant fabric of the robe. "Because I'm planning to fuck you until you can't walk."

Dorian laughs, the low throaty chuckle he uses to cover a moan of anticipation.

Someone clears their throat loudly from somewhere on Bull's blind side. Both of them freeze, then whip round like guilty teenagers to face Pellio, Dorian's _vilicus_ , the superintendent responsible for management of the estate while he's in Minrathous.

"Master Pavus," Pellio says stiffly, with a polite little bow. "I'll go tell the kitchen staff not to expect you gentlemen downstairs for dinner, shall I?"

Dorian flushes crimson all the way to his ears. "Ah - yes. Thank you."

Bull knows from experience that there can be a certain appeal to the thrill of getting caught - but usually only when there's proper scandal at risk, not just heavy sighs and resigned looks. Nobody here is  _shocked_ by Bull, anymore.

They don't bother to retrieve their clothes, hastening upstairs and dodging any further curious eyes like furtive teenagers stealing away for some clandestine encounter. Except that everyone in the house knows they're fucking, of course. Dorian fusses with the robe awkwardly as they walk, trying and failing to make it fall in a way that disguises his now-quite-noticeable dick, and Bull tries and fails not to laugh.

“Shut up,” Dorian hisses, still crimson across his cheekbones. It’s hard to tell if he’s flustered or flattered. He fumbles for a moment with the latch to his door in his urgency, cusses, and then laughs. “Remember that time in the back room of the Herald’s Rest, when the Inquisitor nearly caught us?”

Bull grins broadly. "Of course I do. You realize she had us figured out for ages before that, though? She kept doing that poker-face thing for your benefit, but we weren't exactly subtle, and tent walls are thin."

“Yes, well. I was still quite convinced of my own cleverness at the time. Plus, I liked the idea of getting away with it.” The door clicks open and he steps inside, swinging it wide for Bull. A few lamps, rune-lit, glow softly on the bedside table, and a west-facing window dapples the last of the sunset across Dorian’s skin as he sheds his robe, red-gold on dusky tan.

Neither of them are young men any longer. Arguably, Bull was not young even when he and Dorian began. There are limits to their bodies: aching backs, a failing knee, long-healed scars to be skirted mindfully. Other limits, too: Dorian can't come three times in one night any longer, which is a pity, because that was an impressive trick while it lasted. But it's all right. Bull can take his time.

Dorian, on the other hand, doesn’t seem terribly interested in being patient. As soon as the door clicks closed, he is pressed against Bull, arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe and pulling him down into a fierce kiss. Bull lets Dorian take charge for a moment, or at least the illusion thereof, leaning back against the closed door and wrapping his arms around Dorian's waist to press their bodies tightly to one another.

Then he wraps a hand under each of Dorian's thighs and lifts him until his legs are around Bull's waist. Dorian squalls in surprise, wrapping his arms tighter around Bull's neck for balance, as he takes a few short steps towards the bed.

“ _Please_ don’t throw your back out before we’ve even started, amatus.” Dorian’s tone may be put-upon, but the flush riding high on his cheekbones and his blown pupils tell an entirely different story.

"Hush, kadan." It's the sort of showy thing he hasn't done in ages, and his bad knee is going to hate him for it in the morning… but Dorian has always loved being manhandled. That was pretty much the first thing that Bull figured out about Dorian, how badly he wanted to be pinned down and conquered by someone stronger than him.

And pinning him down is, in fact, exactly what Bull does: depositing him on the edge of the bed and pressing him into the mattress with a broad palm on his chest.

"Oil?" he asks, without preamble.

“The little blue bottle on the bedstand,” Dorian answers breathlessly.

"Watch-word?"

“Katoh. Why, are you planning on making me use it?”

"Just checking in." These little rituals are important: he has to get himself in the right headspace first. He doesn't really think that Dorian is likely to forget the watch-word by now, but echoing it is a reminder of the rules of engagement. Bull takes the blue bottle, not opening it just yet but making sure it will be within easy arm's reach later, then reaches under the bed to pull out the wooden chest containing the more interesting equipment. His hand hovers over some of the more…. _exotic_ fine dwarven crafts that Minrathous has to offer, before settling on a length of silk rope.

Silk's a very different material than the sturdy _antaam-saar_ hemp rope that Bull learned on. It's slippery, less tooth to it, doesn't hold intricate knots quite as well. But Dorian likes the way it feels on his skin - it leaves fewer marks, after. And it holds dye well: this coil is a rich indigo blue that complements Dorian in a way they both find pleasing.

"Wrists out," he says firmly. Dorian obliges without hesitation, and Bull wraps several loops of the rope around his wrists, securing them together with a bowline knot. Ordinarily he'd tie his lover's hands behind his back, for that extra sense of vulnerability… but it's a little harder on the joints, and tonight he wants Dorian to be able to watch him work. Bull's hands move swiftly and surely, tracing the patterns of knots with the confidence borne of practice. Over one shoulder, looping round his back, then the other shoulder, the pads of his fingers skimming skin just often enough to make Dorian shudder with anticipation, pausing regularly to test the tension on the rope and make sure he's not cutting off circulation…

Soon Dorian is bound and helpless, chest and upper body crisscrossed in an intricate diamond-pattern of interwoven rope, legs left bare so that Bull can spread them wide later. Bull sits back to admire his handiwork, reaching up to caress his lover's cheek. "Feeling all right?"

“More than all right,” Dorian murmurs, leaning into Bull’s touch. He’s _excited_ already, breathing quicker and shallower, cock hard without Bull ever having touched it.

"Pretty boy," Bull murmurs fondly, carding fingers through Dorian's hair. "We haven't even gotten started, yet. Maybe I should put a cock ring on you, hmm? Leave you all tied up like this, see how long I can make you beg before you come?"

Dorian sighs shakily. “ _Maker_ ,” he says, little more than a breath. “I might actually catch on fire.”

Given Dorian's propensity for setting curtains on fire when he gets overexcited, this is not in any way hyperbolic. Bull laughs, not unkindly. "I suppose I have kept you waiting long enough, haven't I." Too many long years of separation. Too many hasty kisses in stolen moments. Too much long-distance sex via sending crystals, fumbling in the dark and whispering breathless filthy endearments to one another, each pretending the other was close enough to touch. "I won't make you wait any longer."

He strips off the towel and casts it aside. Bull's own cock is… well, _proportional_ is a word he's always liked using, with curious potential partners. Bragging about one's own size is always tacky, and usually comes across like you've got something to prove. But Bull is big and thick _everywhere_. Just calling it 'proportional' usually gets the message across, while still leaving a little to the imagination.

Not that there's much to leave to the imagination right now. Bull's raging hard, beads of precum already pearling at the tip. He reaches for the bottle of oil, slicking up his fingers first, working the oil between thumb and fingertip until it warms to body temperature. Then he traces a teasing touch down the shaft of Dorian's cock, cupping his balls, teasing at his hole.

Dorian moans, a dark, shuddery sound, and arches into his hand. “ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers.

Bull's size has never been much of an issue, with Dorian. More of a _challenge_ , really - and Dorian's response to a challenge is to rise to it. (Ha. _Rise_ to it. He's going to have to remember that one to tease Dorian with later.) Sometimes it requires a little extra patience beforehand, though, and it's been long enough since they fucked properly that Bull feels a little resistance when he slides a slick finger into Dorian. Not that that's surprising; Bull's fingers are as thick around as some of the cocks Dorian's taken in his life, most likely. But it's a cue for him to slow down, crooking his finger to stroke Dorian's prostate, massaging until he feels the tension start to subside. With his free hand, he shifts Dorian's legs open a little wider, adjusts the angle of his hips until he's laid bare for Bull.

"Never gonna get tired of that view," he murmurs, dark and full of warmth.  

Dorian’s only response is another shuddering moan, body arching into Bull’s hand. He surrenders himself to Bull’s touch readily now, a far cry from the walls upon walls he’d had the first time Bull touched him.

He slides a second finger into Dorian, opening him up, watching his cock twitch every time Bull brushes his prostate. Bull knows Dorian's body well enough to know he's unlikely to come from this alone, but the rope binding his hands means he can't touch himself to help speed things along. He's entirely at Bull's mercy, and he'll come when Bull lets him come.

He knows it excites Dorian; he can see it in the way he clenches and unclenches his fists, the tension in his forearms as he twists gently in the bindings. If Dorian _wants_ to be let out, he knows the watch-word. But Dorian does nothing of the sort, bracing himself against the rope as Bull fucks his fingers into him, taking his time, scissoring him apart. He _whines_ when Bull pulls away and reaches for the oil again, head falling back against the bed.

Reaching down, he fists his own cock, giving himself only a few cursory strokes with the oil to slick himself up; it's not like he needs a lot of encouragement, with the show that Dorian is putting on. (Of all the indignities of getting older to be spared: the rest of Bull might be showing his age, but his dick has never failed him when he needs it.) Then he grips Dorian's hips in both hands, tugging the mage down onto his cock, sliding into him in one slow, smooth thrust. This is Bull's preferred rhythm: unhurried, nothing frantic or savage about it, but unstoppable as the tide. An absolute certainty that Dorian _will_ yield to him, will take _all_ of him, every inch.

Words are harder, now: it's difficult to focus on what his mouth is doing and the pace he's setting at the same time, and his praise tends to run together into a jumbled mess of _yeah, you like that, you're so fucking hot, Dorian, fuck, I love you_ \- that last one would have been unthinkable, once, but now it joins the rest of the litany as effortlessly as if it always belonged there.

It’s the same for Dorian, though his confused jumble of words lapses as readily into Tevene as it does the Trade-tongue, a stream of filthy sounds punctuated with _Yes, yes, Bull, just like that, yes, amatus, please_ -

Towards the end, when he can feel Dorian's body draw tight like a bowstring, _then_ at last Bull lets go of that iron self-control, letting himself thrust into Dorian with abandon. Dorian comes first, body arching, a wordless cry wrung from him as Bull fucks him through the orgasm. Bull follows soon after, spilling into Dorian, a throaty growl clawing its way up from somewhere deep in his chest.

Sometimes he stays like this as long as he can, keeping his softening cock inside Dorian while they both come down, making the intimate moment last. But his bad knee is trembling like it wants to buckle, reminding him that he left his brace downstairs in the baths. So instead he pulls away - drawing a little plaintive sound from Dorian - and lets himself sprawl on the mattress beside his lover. Reaching out, he draws Dorian against his chest, undoing the knots in the silk rope. As soon as his hands are free, Dorian wraps his arms around Bull’s neck, nuzzling his face into his shoulder.

“Amatus,” he murmurs, muffled against Bull’s skin.

"Kadan," Bull echoes.

Once he feels like he can move again, Bull rises, padding over to the dresser where a soft cloth and basin of water wait. This, too, is as much a part of sex as everything that came before it: caring for Dorian in the warm haze of afterglow, cleaning up the sticky mess that Bull made of him, checking circulation in newly-freed extremities. It's not especially cold in the bedroom, but Dorian shivers a little where damp skin meets the air, and Bull draws the bedclothes up over him before settling back in beside him.

“I love you,” Dorian says sleepily, rolling over so he can toss half of the blanket over Bull. “Welcome home.”

Bull cradles Dorian close, pressing a kiss to his brow, then lets his head fall back against the pillows. If this is what _home_ feels like… well. He could get used to this.

 

\---

 

Dawn arrives slowly, almost leisurely, like it doesn't want to disturb them. Even the house-staff downstairs go about their work as stealthily as jungle-cats, with only the occasional creak of a floorboard or hushed fragment of conversation to remind Bull they're there.

(Given the amount of noise Dorian made last night, Bull suspects everyone in the villa knows what they were up to. Nonetheless, everyone will be tactful about it - with the possible exception of Pellio, who has worked for Dorian long enough to have earned the right to tease.)

Bull's dawnstone axe rests where it belongs, in the stand by the door beside Dorian's favorite staff. He feels no particular need to have it close to hand. The sensation of _safety_ is unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. He's retired, now. The fate of the world is someone else's mission, now. The only thing that Bull has to protect is the man sleeping in his arms, hair tousled, kohl mussed into sleepy dark rings around his eyes.

Bull smiles, and kisses Dorian's forehead until he wakes, blinking owlishly. He stretches luxuriously - then stops, wincing, the soreness from last night apparently setting in. " _Fasta vass_. I may have overdone it a little."

"You're just out of practice," Bull agrees sagely. "Because I've been away so long. Next time will be even better."

"Out of practice -?!" Dorian sputters mock-indignantly, thumping a hand against Bull's broad chest. "It's not my fault you only visit me once a year, you great brute -"

"Not anymore."

The silence settles around them, two lovers facing a long future together. No war tearing them to opposite ends of the continent. No pressing crisis at hand. No hasty, fumbling nights in a tent in the field, hoping they'd both make it through tomorrow's battle, knowing that the odds were against their survival. Only lazy mornings like this one.

"I'm going to go mad with boredom in three weeks, tops," Bull announces, after some consideration. "I need a job or a hobby or something, kadan."

"Speak for yourself," grumbles Dorian. "I'm a retired magister of a House with no heir, it's basically _expected_ that I'll retire to the country and waste away in hedonistic indolence."

"Yeah, but I'm not built for sitting around all day, and I can't be fucking you at all hours. Your ass is spectacular, but not _unbreakable_."

"Maker forbid, the _chafing_."

Bull laughs. Dorian does, too, an easy comfortable laugh that tapers off into drowsy contemplation. Neither of them have really considered what comes _after_ this moment.

Hissrad lived his life as a weapon, shaped and tempered by the Qun. There was no space for gentle idleness there. But Bull left Hissrad behind a long time ago. In that absence, there's space for something new to grow.

"I'll still be visiting Minrathous on occasion," Dorian remarks between yawns, "to visit Mae, and help her wrangle Lucerni. On a strictly informal basis, of course."

"Of course." Dorian has never been good at letting go of things, least of all his own political ambitions to reform Tevinter. Bull would expect nothing less. "Someone has to make sure they're not setting anything historic on fire."

Dorian rolls over, draping himself over Bull's body, pillowing his head on Bull's chest so that he can look him in the eye a little better. "I'm sure I could wrangle something for you. We always need Ben-Hassrath counterintelligence. It'd be mostly desk work - codebreaking and the like - but it'd be something."

Bull grunts noncommittally. "Could give it a shot, but I can't guarantee anything. The stuff in my head is probably too far out of date to be useful." Ben-Hassrath are nothing if not rigorous about operational security; Bull still knows how to crack a code, because _of course_ he does, but he's not going to have any special insight into modern Qunari ciphers. Still, the idea of matching wits against whatever new Hissrads they've brought up to replace him… It's a little appealing. "What about helping out around the villa? You know I still feel weird about the whole servants thing -"

"They're not servants, Bull, they're _employees_ ," Dorian sighs, with the heavy resignation of a man who has had this conversation many times. "And I don't want you throwing out your back again and giving Pellio a stress ulcer, the poor man endures enough."

"That was _one time -_ "

"One time is one too many!"

"You old sap," Bull grumbles, but fondly. "You want to wrap me up in a blanket and find me nice, safe hobbies, like knitting, or baking."

"Yes, Maker forbid that, now I have you, I want you to _live_ to a ripe old age with all of your remaining extremities intact." He laces his fingers with Bull's, on the hand that's missing two fingertips - a relic of Seheron - then brings the hand to his mouth to kiss the scars tenderly. Bull melts a little.

"I guess baking could be fun," Bull concedes. (It is difficult to explain the Qunari fascination with baked goods to someone who didn't grow up under the Qun: it's not that Par Vollen's food lacks _flavor_ , or that they don't have sweets. But the Orlesian sort of _patisserie_ is inherently wasteful: it takes tremendous amounts of time and effort, not to mention butter and sugar and spices and other expensive ingredients, to produce tiny delicate indulgences that don't even fill you up. It's _decadent_. It's everything the Qun doesn't stand for.) "I could learn to make the frilly little cakes that you and Ma'am like so much."

"She's not here, Bull, you _can_ call her Viv if you like."

Bull has a sudden mental image of Madame de Fer in full regalia, sweeping imperiously through the doorway, summoned by the sound of an insufficiently respectful form of address. "...Better safe than sorry."

Something Dorian brought up earlier in the conversation is pulling at him. It slipped away from him, and Bull let it slip, but now he reels it back slowly, testing the waters. "...You mentioned heirs, earlier. Does it bother you? The whole… House Pavus thing."

Dorian shrugs easily. It would fool anyone else, Bull thinks. But his hand is resting on the small of Dorian's back, and he feels the muscles tense, just slightly. "Oh, I don't know. I think I've left more than enough of a legacy, don't you? And in a sense, I feel like this is one last act of spite to my father, you know - _you wanted me to marry a nice well-bred girl and produce an heir? Ha! Too bad! The line ends here!_ "

It's a good approximation of Dorian's usual flippant tone, when it comes to the subject of his family. But Bull knows better. He wraps an arm around Dorian, pulling him a little closer, giving him time to consider his next words carefully. "...It's all right to feel conflicted about it, Dorian. It doesn't mean that you're letting him win."

Dorian scrubs a hand over his face, not meeting Bull's eye. "...I know, amatus. It's just… I wouldn't give this up for the world. I wouldn't give _you_ up for anything. But it's - strange. I suppose I… part of me still wanted the chance to be _better_. A better father."

"What are Tevinter's laws on adoption?" Bull asks.

Dorian goes very still. "...I hadn't considered… I didn't think you would be - "

"Interested? Let's say that I was." He keeps his tone calm, relaxed. Not pushing him; the last thing that Bull wants is to press Dorian into a rash decision on the assumption that this is something _Bull_ needs to be happy.

"I don't - I can't say that I've looked into it. If nothing else, it would be _wildly_ against custom, I've certainly never heard of an adoptive heir inheriting a Magisterial seat, not with such a focus on _bloodlines_ \- but I've also never heard of a law explicitly forbidding it, either. If it's all a matter of social pressure, why, I'm already a pariah, that's not going to stop me, now is it?" Dorian sits up abruptly, making like he's going to get out of bed and go hit the books _right now_ , but Bull's arm around his waist stops him.

"Easy, kadan. There's no rush. We have all the time we need."

Dorian sinks back against Bull's chest. Where skin meets skin, Bull can feel Dorian's heartbeat racing. "I… I suppose we do, don't we?"

Bull leans down, kisses the top of Dorian's head where the hair is all silver. "We can talk about it more later, make sure this is something we both want. For now… come back to bed with me."

  
  


_do not let my fickle flesh go to waste_   
_as it keeps my heart and soul in its place_ _  
and I will love with urgency, but not with haste_

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to paroxferox for beta-reading and help with Dorian's voice. Happy holidays, and may 2018 be a brighter year for us all.


End file.
